


Hand on Your Heart

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Young Emma, post-4.08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:14:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2651693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma reflects on her past as she readies herself to put Killian's heart back in his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand on Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by tumblr user spanglemaker9: "She never imagined holding Killian's heart in her hands could feel like this."  
> title is from jose gonzalez's cover of an old kylie minogue song

She never imagined holding Killian's heart in her hands could feel like this. It looked like it ought to be heavy, like one of those weird crystal paperweights in Regina's old office, but it wasn't. Actually, it reminded her a lot of this one temporary home she'd stayed in for two weeks exactly, right before Christmas, when she was fourteen. Mrs. Cunningham was an older lady who usually only took infants because she had been a nanny when she was younger, but they had nowhere to stick Emma at the time and she'd reluctantly relented. Later on, she told Emma that she was glad to have her around. Emma didn't mind helping out with the two little babies she was watching while waiting for the court to settle whether they would go with their drug-rehab parents or their concerned grandparents. It was one of the only times when Emma felt like maybe one day she'd get that--people actually fighting over her--and it had a lot to do with Mrs. C.

Mrs. C did a lot of charity work--things like knitting caps for NICU babies and packing up boxes of donated items to countries experiencing local disasters for church. Emma got dragged to Sunday school twice for those two weeks, but she didn't mind. It made Mrs. C happy, so Emma went without complaining.

Then it was December 19th, and Mrs. C declared that they were going to make festive popcorn balls for the Bridge Club at the local senior center. Emma thought that sounded so lame that it _had_ to be wonderful, because she'd never seen anything like that before. She could imagine a room full of nice old ladies like Mrs. C with cards and bowls of nuts and like, knitting or something. It sounded boring and nice. So, they set about actually _making homemade caramel_ (who _does_ that?), but Emma ignored the sadness in Mrs. C's eyes when she told Emma that making candy was tricky, and maybe she'd let her do the stirring next time.

Emma learned that popcorn could be made on the stove. She learned how to heat a pan properly and when you can tell by the color change in the oil that it's ready to go. She learned how to listen for the little tell-tale pops to begin, that it means something cool is about to happen, and she learned how to hold on to the lid when she shook the popcorn around so she wouldn't get burned.

Mrs. C gave her a lot of useful tips that day. She was still the only foster family Emma ever recalled with clarity or fondness. Even now, she wonders if she ought to find out if Mrs. C is still around, still bringing babies into her home and offering them even one tiny bit of the love that Emma still carries around in her heart to this very day. Maybe shoot her a Christmas card or something, tell her that she never forgot not to let herself get burned.

The best part about making popcorn balls was when it got messy--they used the same plastic gloves the ladies in school cafeterias use, and they set about pouring caramel over the popcorn once everything had cooled down a little bit. At first, Emma was a little nonplussed at the idea of sticking her hands in a giant bowl of warm caramel and popcorn, but if Mrs. C said it was okay, she believed her. Emma could distinctly remember that soft, warm, sweet feeling of cupping her hands around a mound of warm, gooey popcorn. How the almost-burnt sugar smell practically stuck in her nostrils, how satisfying it was to form this perfectly imperfect thing with her bare hands, moving her palms and fingers around delicately, not at all like forming a snowball, worrying that if she squeezed too tight it would crumble to pieces. Mrs. C was there to smile and reassure her that she trusted Emma and to just do what she thought was right. So Emma did, cradling those popcorn balls in her hands, enjoying the warmth and the anticipated sweetness that would come, because she knew that one of them was going to be set aside, just for her.

"You ready, love?"

Emma smiled fondly, still cradling the pulsating, warm, sweet light of his heart in her hands, and if she molded her palms and fingers around it gently to make sure it wouldn't crumble to pieces, she was sure that out there somewhere, Mrs. C was proud.


End file.
